Chapter 7
The worst thing of all, perhaps, was the weird effect the jolting, broken-spring tour bus had on her vagina as it rattled along the back roads of the Chateau country down on to the Lot district and the Mediterranean coast.
There were, to be sure, plenty of additional horrors: Spike Soderberg and that flagrantly promiscuous slut, Arlene Hixson, whose erotic escapades seemed to have affected most of the other World Worshiper adolescents with a mass sexual insanity; the unrelenting heat and succession of survival-budget hotels or youth hostels whose plumbing was quite inadequate for refreshing perspiration-drenched bodies; the erratic road techniques of young Bernard Cretin, the driver . . . not to mention the disturbing way the stunted, acne-scarred Frenchman kept undressing her with those squint-lidded dark eyes of his. Over and above all, there were those crippling spasms of stomach-curdling jealousy which struck whenever she glimpsed Alan Dubois chatting in his charming way with one of the more attractive female teenagers ... or even merely looking at, say, Arlene's abundant un-brassiered bosom, or blonde Cordelia's more cultured feline form in her bikini.
Monica was hopelessly infatuated with tour director Dubois, hated herself for her weakness, and was incapable of doing one single thing to ebb the fury of her feverish obsession. Her mood-after the first day on the road, which she'd survived in a hellish hung--over haze of purely physical misery--alternated between grueling guilt over the debauched delights she'd indulged in back at the Hotel Modern and a frantic fear that the handsome older man wasn't Truly In Love, the way she knew herself to be.
It was no use telling herself that she was behaving like a sixteen year-old schoolgirl with a crush instead of a twenty-two year-old Sunday school chaperone; logic had absolutely no effect on her emotions. Every evening, sinful though she knew it was, her entire body ached with the hope that they'd stop in some place with private bedrooms instead of dormitory-type accommodations.
For the first time in her life, she forgot to say her prayers before falling asleep. Instead, very furtively so her young charges wouldn't notice, she stroked her throbbing pussy and dreamed about Alan's magical lips and fingers.
Gene Puddocky, faithful hometown sweetheart and dedicated divinity student, she'd managed to relegate to a dusty back corner of her mind until today. Now, as she stood frozen in fearful in-decisiveness just beyond the battlements of yet another look-alike chateau, she seriously considered crumpling the pale blue aerogramme with its familiar neat lettering and tossing it into the nearest trash basket. Unopened .. .
If she closed her eyes to block out the castle's crumbling towers and the birch grove and ancient village beyond, she could see Gene's kind, goofy grin and receding hairline clear as day. And Mon and Dad clasping hands to say grace before their Spartan supper . . . Pastor Briggs folding his pink hands over his potato-padded paunch to deliver pompous proclamations about Purgatory . . . church socials with fruit jello and folk dancing ... chalk dust-clouded classrooms back at college, calm and chaste and uncannily inconsistent with real life.
Real Life! She'd found that here in France, here in this dilapidated bus jouncing over highways and byways, in the promise of future delights she read in Alan's attractive face when he glanced back at her and winked imperceptibly, or when he paid her one of his gallant compliments.
"My sweet summer rose," he'd murmured this morning just before they boarded the bus, glancing significantly at her slender bare legs.
Thank goodness she'd taken up that hem, even though it had seemed a bit risque to expose a full two inches of naked thigh! What would the folks back home think of her New Look-the short skirts, light dash of eye-shadow and lipstick, high-heeled open-toed sandals and hip-hugging, crotch-clasping white trousers she'd purchased back in Chartres instead of going along on that particular chateau tour? Would they approve of her modified "string" bikini? The subtly sensual Joy perfume which Alan had slipped into her hand yesterday morning under the cover of a green Michelin Guide? No, of course they wouldn't.
The folks back home . . . Gene Puddocky ... It was all so long ago, so far away....
All that was real now was the wind rippling through her blonde hair, which she'd taken to wearing long and loose and luxurious of late, the breeze which teased the hem of her skirt nearly up to her elastic panty leg bands. And Alan Dubois, who was sauntering down from the moss-molded parapets with that characteristic self-confident swagger of his slim hips, that charismatic half-grin which melted her muscles into liquid honey.
She crumpled the airmail envelope into a small ball and crammed it into her shoulder bag.
"Monica, darling!" He didn't kiss her-no telling which inquisitive kid might be spying on them-but his eloquent eyes told her that he wanted to. "You look just like a Renoir painting standing here with your beautiful body silhouetted against the ruins of antiquity! I haven't had the chance to say so till now, but you're more beautiful every day, you know. More of a woman . . ."
She wished she could control this ridiculous blushing.
"Th-thank you."
"And," he bent closer, "you're wearing my perfume! Do you like it-I hope so?"
"Oh, y-yes. Yes, I do, Alan. It's-it's very nice." Why did she always get so flustered around him that she sounded like an imbecile? "It's fantastic!" she tried again, employing one of the kids' favorite words.
"Wonderful! It suits you. But listen, my love, I have something exciting to tell you, and we've only got a moment before those wretched brats come streaming out of the damn castle. It's hell never having a minute alone, isn't it?"
Until this week she'd always assumed that people who swore were vulgar and ill-bred, if not downright depraved. Yet Alan's scornful put-down by obscenities of this undeniably absurd "Christian Living Adventure" was oddly exciting . ..
"Oh, yes!"
"So guess what I've done? I've just rung down south to change our reservations for Friday. . . now the Auberge des Jeunesse in Cap d'Ail has only booked nine beds, and you'll have to stay in a hotel!"
"Oh!' Monica's blood was pulsing through her veins so fiercely she had to lean back against the stone embankment. "Oh ... oh, I d-don't know . . ."
"Nothing to worry about! A mistake, obviously. And I managed to reserve you a room in a nice little place I stayed at once before with a marvelous view of the sea and a big bed. Clean and quiet and private. It's called the Hotel Modern too, isn't that crazy!"
The pulsating sensations had concentrated down between her legs, and a telltale dampness on the crotch band of her brand new translucent nylon panties told her what she'd answer even as she made a vain attempt to debate with herself. Friday ... that was only two days away . . .
"Don't look so distressed, darling! When two people care about each other the way we do, it's a sin to deny the physical half of their love. You know that, deep inside. You know you do!"
"Yes, Alan," she whispered.
Then, before they knew what was happening, the teenagers had descended en masse. Their shrill, bickering cries drowned out the pastoral background symphony of lowing cows and buzzing bees, and the tour director and his assistant automatically edged away from each other.
"Hey, Al! Do we really gotta go see another crummy cloister after this? How come we can't take one of 'em champagne cave tours, huh? I got this guidebook here that says the Mumm's one gives out free samples! How 'bout it, Al?"
Mumms's did indeed offer free tasting, and by the time Monica Blakesley had downed two cups of the cool bubbling stuff and had weaved back to the hotel to dive into a shower which was blissfully hot for once, she felt brave enough to dig down in her handbag and unearth the wrinkled blue letter. For the first time, she noticed that it had been sent special delivery.
"My dearest Monica, I am delighted to inform you that I will have the unexpected opportunity to see you in the near future. How happy I am! Poor Ralph Holch caught the mumps, and though I am of course filled with sorrow for his unfortunate condition, I am also grateful to the Good Lord for providing this unanticipated chance to see you, my dear fiancée. I am honored to have been chosen as the substitute representative to the religious publishers' convention in Monte Carlo, and hope your busy schedule permits us a few days together on the sunny Riviera.
"Forgive me if I must make this brief, but I want to take it down to the post office for today's mailing.
And forgive me, too, if I am sounding too intimate. I hope you are not too lonely over there in Europe without your family and me, your special friend. But of course the Lord Jesus and the Heavenly Father are always by your side.
"Your faithful Gene Gene Puddocky"
Does he have to write as though he's trying to sell Bibles? was her first reaction, and then her hands clasped together in bone-clenching despair as she realized the implications of the aerogramme. What in heaven's name was she going to do now? What?
Woodenly, she wandered to the window of her six-bed room, crumpling the letter back into a sweaty ball as she stared blindly out into the gathering dusk and let the wind cool her burning forehead. Thank God she was alone, at least-the teenagers having taken off for some cafeteria chow and a disco in nearby Cahors. Despite the blessedly rare interval of privacy, however, Monica soon found the stuffy chamber claustrophobic and opted for a long walk to think things over.
Tossing a cardigan over her skimpy pink sundress-the air had unexpectedly chilled, and a torrid bank of thunder-clouds hovered over the hills on the horizon-she hurried down the staircase and out into the fresh-smelling dusky blue darkness. This wasn't Montparnesse ... nothing unpleasant could possibly happen to her here in this tranquil outlying village in the heart of the peaceful Lot district of rural France. A nice healthy hike was just what was needed to calm her nerves, to temper the treacherous trembling deep inside her loins . . .